Song of the Last Day
by Saucery
Summary: First Officer D'rek wants to Pon Farr the hell out of little Ensign Stilinski.
1. Chapter 1

**SONG OF THE LAST DAY**

**- I -**

* * *

When Stiles is commissioned to the _Monitor_ (most boring name _ever_ for a starship, but it _is_ an awesome ship), he doesn't actually expect to be the youngest member of the crew. There have to be more than a few teenage geniuses in Starfleet, right? He knows of two, off the top of his head - Ensigns Chekov and Martin, the former being one of the great heroes of the recent battle against the Romulans, and the latter being Stiles's astrophysics crush for the better part of his time as a cadet. Seriously, her _brain_. And her body. And her… yeah. The one thing he sort of misses about being a cadet is being able to see her in her reds, sitting ramrod-straight in the first row, eyes flashing with righteous wrath at some mathematical error made by the TA. (Stiles privately thought the TA did it deliberately, just to get her to look at him.)

But Lydia Martin was assigned to the _Liberty_, and Stiles was assigned to the _Monitor_, and never (or hardly ever) the twain shall meet. Oh, well. He still keeps tabs on her career in a totally non-creepy way, over Starnet, and catches occasional stills and holograms of her doing mission-type things, with this annoying jock type by her side. Ensign Whittemore. Damn him and his perfect cheekbones. And his mouth. And his… yeah. Wait, he's supposed to be perving on _Lydia_. Not that he's perving on her. That would be wrong.

"Ensign," says a low, gravelly voice behind him, and Stiles snaps to attention. He hopes to hell he managed to hide what he had on his screen (Jackson Whittemore's fine ass, clad in snug Engineering gold).

"Yes, sir." Stiles tries not to hyperventilate. Because it's Commander D'rek, _First Officer_ D'rek, scowly and sour-faced as usual. Aren't Vulcans supposed to be expressionless? D'rek always looks like he's dying of man-pain. Not that it isn't a good look on him, but still.

"You have been selected for the away mission Beta-Four-Nine as an auxiliary technician. You will report to the transporter room at 2145 hours. Full objectives, translator settings and weapons specifications pertinent to the mission will be available on your console." D'rek's eyes flick to Stiles's console, and his eyebrows _twitch_, which, shit, probably means I Am Judging You in Vulcanese. Because, as it happens, Stiles _hadn't_ managed to minimize that image of Whittemore's ass.

"Sir, I'm - "

"It appears that you have completed your calculations, as you have time to engage in recreational… activities."

"Uh. Yeah? I - I was done with the calculations, like, an hour ago - "

D'rek's eyebrows twitch again. They're really _bold_ eyebrows, for a Vulcan, not the slinky little things Stiles often sees on Vulcan faces. Hell, these aren't just eyebrows; they're _ultimatums_. Stiles kind of feels like he should be putting his hands up and surrendering all his gold. To the eyebrow highwaymen. The eyebrow pirates. The eyebrow _buccaneers_. "Your work is swift."

"I… um, not to toot my own horn, sir, but - " teenage genius, here " - decoding transmissions is sort of my specialty. I'm still really sorry, though, for wasting crucial ship time on - on personal interests of, uh, a personal nature - "

"After the mission, you will accompany me to the bridge and assist Ensigns Markov and Patel in their calculations."

The _bridge_? Wow. Markov and Patel will resent the hell out of him, though. Most of the ensigns do, sooner or later. Which is why Stiles usually eats alone in the mess hall. Which is why he hardly ever eats _at_ the mess hall. "Thank you, sir." _I think._

"In future, if you have completed your work in advance of the given deadline, you will report to me and ask to be assigned new tasks. Further… leisure pursuits during your rostered shifts will be seen as a dereliction of duty, and will lead to disciplinary action. Have I made myself understood?"

"Yes, sir." Oh, _crap_. He's on the commander's black-list, now. On the one hand, he's really lucky that Commander D'rek is being lenient enough to give him a second chance, but on the other hand, most people on the commander's black-list don't survive their first rotation without time in the brig or on-record reprimands. Careers have been ruined.

D'rek moves his fingers over Stiles's console, ignores the pseudo-pornographic image and studies Stiles's calculations, instead. They're pretty goddamn elegant, if Stiles says so himself, because subspace transmissions are a bitch to decode when you're dealing with interference _and_ gamma rays from a mile-wide neutron field. "There is not a single error in these equations," D'rek murmurs, and looks up at Stiles.

Yes? Thanks? Eek? What's he supposed to say? "That's, um. That's - "

D'rek's eyes are a cold, assessing blue. "As of tomorrow, you are permanently reassigned to the bridge."

Wait, _what_?

"Ensign Markov will take your station."

"Um. Sir, maybe Ensign Markov might, like - " _kill me in my sleep?_ " - want to keep his station? The station he was originally assigned to?"

"Sentiment is irrelevant. Utility is paramount."

Holy _fuck_.

"I will advise the captain of this change. He will agree with me, once he sees the quality of your work."

This is either the biggest compliment Stiles has ever received, or the most subtly vindictive death trap ever constructed. Forget eating alone in the mess hall - Stiles will end up lynched in some random cargo bay. "Thank you, sir." Why is thanking D'rek for fucking up his life becoming a pattern? Shit. _Shit._

"Gratitude is irrelevant. Utility - "

" - is paramount, yes, sir. Uh. Sorry for interrupting."

"Your role in the away mission has also been revised. You will now be the primary technician."

"Who _was_ the primary technician, sir? Who'll, um, now be an auxiliary?"

"Ensign Patel."

Great. Just _great_. Maybe by the time this week is through, Stiles's body parts will actually be found in less than five separate containers.

"Do you disagree with your reassignment."

Whoa. That wasn't even a question. That wasn't even _pretending_ to be a question. There was no question-mark at the end of that sentence. "No, sir. I follow orders, sir."

"That is as it should be. Report to the transporter room at the aforementioned time."

"Yes, sir."

"You will now return to your quarters and spend the remainder of the evening preparing for the mission as per your new role. Ensure that you have all the necessary supplies. The authorization code for the Requisitions replicator, should you require it, will be sent to your PADD."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

So. Stiles is dismissed. Stiles is also very likely _sentenced to death_, so he'd better write a brief letter to his dad telling him how awesome life is and how many friends he's made on his new ship, so that when he _does_ end up dead, at least the last memory Dad will have of him is a happy one.

* * *

He isn't, miraculously, dead by the end of the week. Or the end of the month. He's settled down on the bridge, and even though all the other ensigns hate him, none of them dare to mess with his results or try to get him into trouble, because First Officer D'rek is right there, glowering down at them like the world's most logical hawk.

Stiles… likes his work, here. He doesn't get bored. There's always something going on, whether it's First Contact with a species of jellyfish-headed religious extremists, or asteroid clusters that turn out to be sentient mineral-beings.

And Captain Argent, while scary in a whole 'nother way, has this dry, ribbing sense of humor that tends to get D'rek's back up, and that alone is worth being on the bridge, just to see D'rek get wound up like that.

For someone who calls emotions 'irrelevant', D'rek sure has plenty of them to go around.

* * *

Is it just Stiles, or is Commander D'rek getting more and more constipated?

Turns out, it _isn't_ just Stiles. He doesn't have access to the grapevine, mostly because he's a pariah among the ensigns, but Stiles_has_ overheard the odd, muted complaint about how anal-retentive the First Officer is becoming. More so than he used to be, even. People tend to vanish whenever D'rek walks down a hallway, like ghosts before an oncoming exorcist, and it'd almost be funny if it wasn't kind of sad. D'rek's an asshole, but he isn't _evil_, Stiles doesn't think. And Stiles knows what ostracization feels like.

Stiles doesn't know what to _do_ with that - he isn't exactly supposed to be sympathizing with the bane of his existence - so he just acts like he always does, and chitters and chatters about equations and anomalies and the provability of increasingly ridiculous theorems, until the line of D'rek's shoulders eases, a bit, and he replies in a voice that resembles his normal one, instead of the tight, strained whip of a voice it often is, nowadays.

* * *

It's on his third away mission that things go to hell.

They've been trying to obey the Prime Directive, they really have, but with deceptively anachronistic spear-lasers waving in their faces, they've had to blow their cover, and in the ensuing escape, the planet's natives have managed to use something resembling a mine to bring a fucking _landslide_ down on them.

And so Stiles is left contemplating his demise with Commander D'rek unconscious and spilled across Stiles's lap, bleeding bright green from a deep gash in his head, while Stiles himself has his leg crushed under a rock the size of a small shuttlecraft.

He _hurts_, but mostly, all he can think of is what a relief it is that the rest of the team got away, and how fucked up it'll be if D'rek dies _here_, with his head cradled in Stiles's arms, when he should be shattering boulders with his bare fists. D'rek is frankly badass. When he's conscious, anyway. Shit.

"You better not die," says Stiles. "I mean, I may never _walk_ again, not without a prosthetic leg, but you are _not_ going to be the first corpse I get intimate with, you hear me? …Ugh, that sounds gross and vaguely necrophiliac. Relax, I'm not into corpses. Not even the hot ones. And you'd be a hot one. But, just, _no_, dude. I don't swing that way. Deathly pallor? Not a turn-on. Rigor mortis? Nuh-uh. Jesus Christ, Corpse Bride, _wake up_."

But D'rek doesn't stir. Green blood seeps out of his cut, sluggish and sharp-smelling, like something out of that twentieth-century post-apocalyptic holovid that Scott had thought was hilarious, what was it called? _Soylent Green_. Stiles tears off his sleeve with his teeth and tries to staunch the bleeding, but maybe Vulcan blood just doesn't _clot_, or something, because soon, Stiles's hands are slick and trembling and slipping on D'rek's face.

"Freakin' A. As if reassigning me and turning my life upside-down wasn't enough, you've gotta become my worst memory? Come on, man. Vulcan. Vul-man. You don't wanna give an innocent ensign nightmares for the rest of his life, do you? That'll be cruel. Even for you. I mean, you're a harsh taskmaster, but - fuck, is that blood bubbling out of your _mouth_? Since when're you bleeding from your orifices? Oh, crap, when you wake up, you're going to court-martial me for being a necrophiliac. A zombie-lover. I can't stop talking about _holes_ - you have a giant one in your _head_ - I'm grossing _myself_ out and I can't even _stop_ - "

And so it goes. For minutes. Hours. Maybe even days, Stiles can't be sure, but there's the sound of phaser-fire overhead, above where the landslide happened, and then it stops, and then it starts again, and Stiles is dizzy with weakness and desperation and a stark, solitary agony. His leg feels like crushed _glass_. His stomach is an acid pit, boiling away in hunger, and his throat is parched because he keeps talking, but he can't stop talking, not if it means leaving D'rek alone in there, in the darkness inside his own head. It's totally unscientific and medically unproven, but Stiles gets the feeling that if anyone's left alone in there, they won't ever come back.

So he talks. He talks about everything. About Lydia's fabulous tits, not that he's ever actually seen them, but still. About his best friend back home, Scott, who couldn't get into Starfleet but resigned himself to working as a barista at the biggest Starbucks on the base. About Allysonne, Scott's Amazonian alien girlfriend from a matriarchal planet, who is, apparently, also the best in her Projectile Weapons class. About Stiles's dad, who is, obviously, the best dad _ever_, because his hugs are better than deregulated anti-depressants, and Stiles should know, because he'd been _on_ them, once. (After Mom died.) He talks about the best pizza in the known universe, which is clearly the marinara from Geppetto's down on Fifth, and about the worst souvlaki, _also_ from down on Fifth, which nearly killed Stiles after two weeks of unbearable diarrhea.

"Man, lemme just say, if that souvlaki didn't kill me? Nothing can. Not even _this_. A landslide in the middle of a hostile planet on which the chances of rescue are near-nil. You don't have Post Traumatic Souvlaki Disorder, like I do, so you'd probably say survival is statistically unlikely, or whatever. Well, go to hell, Commander. No disrespect. Logic has no _place_ in the utter insanity of this world. Then again, your supernaturally ripped abs don't have any logic to them, either. Seriously, which gym do you go to? The one on Mount Olympus? Does Hercules check you out from the neighboring treadmill? What?"

But before Stiles can get to his best lines - he's a conversationalist bar none, obviously - something blasts through the rocks overhead, and Chief Engineer Finstock booms down at them.

"You alive down there?"

Stiles squints up at him, through the drifting post-explosion dust, and hoarsely shouts an answer. The next thing he knows, he's been beamed up to sickbay, and the lights are fucking _bright_, boring through his skull like screwdrivers. Dr. Deaton's next to him, prying D'rek from Stiles's surprisingly stubborn fingers, murmuring quiet things, soothing things.

"How long were you touching him?" Dr. Deaton asks, as Nurse Yska runs a full-body scan on D'rek. Stiles's leg has been immobilized on the biobed, and he can't feel it, but at this point, he doesn't even care. He just slurps from the cup of water they've handed to him, sloshing it everywhere, cold and stinging over his torn knuckles. Not enough to wash the green away.

"Huh?"

"The commander," repeats Dr. Deaton, gently. "How long were you touching him, Ensign?"

What is this, the 'bad touch' spiel? Does Stiles suddenly resemble a nasty old lech? "Look, I was just - I dunno, how long were we down there?"

"Three days."

"That's how long, then." His head is swimming. He needs to _sleep_, but he can't seem to take his eyes off D'rek -

"Hm," says Dr. Deaton, and it's exactly the same 'hm' Stiles had come to dread from his dentist, because it had always meant losing a tooth. Fuck.

"What? What does that - is he gonna be okay? Shouldn't I have touched him? Did I - did I damage something?" Oh, no. _No._ If D'rek dies - if it's Stiles's _fault_ -

"No, no, nothing like that," the doctor rushes to assure him. "Nothing bad, at all."

Nothing bad. But not nothing worse?

Before Stiles can ask about that, he's jabbed with a hypospray, something that makes him all woozy and light, and he only just manages to stretch his hand out toward D'rek - still and quiet on the neighboring biobed - before he passes out.


	2. Chapter 2

**SONG OF THE LAST DAY**

**- II -**

* * *

Going from zero to hero is pretty fucking strange. All of a sudden, everyone wants to talk to him. He's the guy who nearly lost a leg after surviving enforced starvation under a landslide in the midst of enemy fire (although what's so heroic about being trapped under a rock, like a _snail_, Stiles doesn't know), _and_ he's the guy who apparently kept Commander D'rek alive by touching him and talking to him, since Vulcans are touch telepaths and they need to be kept 'psychically stable,' or something.

Stiles had no idea he was doing that. He'd just - done what he had to.

But saying that only makes people more starry-eyed, so Stiles mostly sticks to his console and avoids talking to anyone unless it's for work. What's weird is that a couple weeks ago, he would've loved this sort of attention, but right now, it just makes him queasy. He keeps rubbing his hands over his uniform, because sometimes, they still feel slick with blood, and he keeps flashing back to the image of D'rek's pale, slack face.

Shit. The fucker really _did_ traumatize him. And he isn't even polite enough to wake the fuck up, which means Stiles has to keep visiting him, keep talking to him, even though Captain Argent tells him that it's okay, that D'rek's been stabilized, that he'll wake up any day, now. Any day.

The captain also insists that Stiles see Lieutenant Danee, the ship's counselor and resident Betazoid, who's way too young and sexy for a job that involves dealing with vulnerable, hormone-driven officers.

"So, how many times a month do you get propositioned, anyway?" Stiles asks him.

"Why, are you going to do it, too?"

Stiles gives it some serious consideration. "No," he says, finally. "I mean, don't get me wrong, you're very attractive - in a deadpan prince kind of way - "

"Deadpan prince?" echoes Danee, somewhat faintly.

"But I'm all worn out, right now. Which is why I'm here, obviously. The captain thinks I'm practically dead on my feet."

"How are you sleeping?"

"Not at all."

"What do you think about, when you're not sleeping?"

"Boobs, mostly. And D'rek. Commander D'rek. Not with boobs. I mean, not Command D'rek _with_ boobs - more like, Commander D'rek _and_ boobs. Completely unrelated boobs. _Not his boobs_ - "

Danee holds up a hand. His eyes are a little wide, but his voice, when he speaks, is more even than a goddamn keel. "Thank you for that mental image."

"Heh. Deadpan prince."

Danee sighs. "And when did you stop touching him?"

"What?"

"When you were on the planet," Danee clarifies. "How long did you touch him for?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that? I didn't molest him while he was unconscious, okay? No matter how ripped a guy is, the fact that he's _bleeding to death_ pretty much ruins any latent homoeroticism in being trapped together in a confined space. Also, my leg was crushed to bits, which meant I couldn't have gotten hard even if I _wanted_ to. Happy?"

"So you didn't stop touching him until he was back onboard."

Stiles huffs. "Yeah. I - what's the big deal with that? Isn't it supposed to be a _good_ thing? Keeping him… psychically stable, or whatever?"

"Yes, well, in normal conditions…" Danee trails off. "I'm sorry. You'd best hear it from the commander, when he awakens. To say anything to you, without his consent, would be a breach of patient confidentiality."

Stiles's gut clenches. "I fucked something up, didn't I."

"Ensign - "

"_Didn't I._"

"You sound like Commander D'rek when you refuse to punctuate properly," Danee observes, peacefully. There's something that resembles a smile on his face. Except that it isn't a smile; it's more a subtle shifting of facial features that doesn't actually change his expression, at all. He'd make a better Vulcan than a Betazoid, damn him. Maybe he and D'rek were switched at birth.

"Aren't you supposed to be empathizing with me? Aren't you, like, an _empath_?"

"Oh, would you look at the time," Danee says. "Same time next week?"

Stiles glares.

"The commander would've awakened, by then. I can't discuss this any further with you, until he's awake and has given me permission to do so. But you can always consult me about other things, in the meantime."

"Other things," Stiles repeats. "Like the Lakers, maybe, and how much they suck. Or the fact that Nurse Yska is having another woman's baby. Or the fact that the replicators keep turning every drink into seaweed slushies. Yeah, I'm absolutely interested in random gossip and sports scores and ship malfunctions. Why would I wanna talk about _Commander D'rek_ after being trapped on an alien planet with him and almost dying together? Sheesh."

"Sarcasm will get you everywhere," Danee deadpans, in his princely way, and points at the door.

"Thanks for your time, Lieutenant," Stiles says, acid-sweet, and this time, Danee _does_ smile.

"You're welcome. And don't worry, Ensign Stilinski. Commander D'rek will be fine."

* * *

D'rek _is_ fine. Very fine. It's a toss-up (or, heh, a toss-_off_) whether it's his pecs or his abs that're fin_er_ (Stiles _has_ seen the guy work out), but he's just really damn fine, in general.

Still, that isn't the point, here.

The point is that, as Stiles hovers near the biobed and tries not to look like he's having an aneurysm (he totally is; he doesn't get why Dr. Deaton keeps telling him he's all right), D'rek's brainwaves start spiking, changing from delta to theta to beta.

D'rek's waking up.

His chapped lips part.

"Dr. Deaton," says D'rek, in a perfectly normal tone, like he's just strolling in to say hello, not that D'rek says hello to anyone, or, or _strolls_, but, fuck. Can't he sound even a _little_ upset? Jittery? _Concerned?_ "Is it safe for me to open my eyes?"

"You don't have any optical damage, no. Go ahead and open your eyes."

D'rek opens his eyes.

Stiles catches his breath.

D'rek immediately looks at him, as sharp and aware as if he hasn't just surfaced from a six-day coma. "Ensign Stilinski," he says, in exactly the same tone, and suddenly, Stiles wants to _break_ something.

"Fuck you," he says, before he can stop himself. "Just - what the hell did you - what were you - "

"I will not discipline you for your insubordination, as these are exceptional circumstances."

"Exceptional, my ass. You nearly _died_ - "

"Ensign. Stand down."

Stiles's body… relaxes. As if on automatic. Stupid Starfleet training. "How'd you know you were in sickbay, sir?" he asks, instead, after taking a minute to compose himself. "Before you opened your eyes, I mean."

"The beeping of the medical devices is distinctive. Are you well?" D'rek glances down at Stiles's leg, and Stiles shifts uncomfortably.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Still need a bit of physio, but - " Stiles blinks. "Hey, wait, how'd you know about my leg? Weren't you passed out, down there?"

D'rek is quiet. Then, he says: "I was continuously aware of your mind. Of your thoughts."

"Uh." Touching. Touching a _touch telepath_. Not just essential to maintaining psychic stability, apparently, but also essential to absolutely humiliating the ensign _doing_ the maintaining. Was this what Danee was trying to warn him about? Too fucking late. "Right. So. _Everything?_ Everything I was thinking? Everything I was saying?"

"Yes."

Fuck. He's told D'rek his life story. So his First Officer is now the person who knows the most about him in the entire _world_, including that time Stiles wet his bed and didn't tell his dad about it. Having a superior officer know that kind of shit about him… Crap. If that isn't awkward, Stiles doesn't know what is. He decides to repress the whole thing and freak out about it later. "How… are you?"

"I, too, am well. My body and mind appear to have healed." D'rek turns to Dr. Deaton. "When will I be free to return to active duty, Doctor?"

Deaton waves his scanner. "A couple of hours. You seem to be fully recovered, but we need to monitor your vitals for a little longer. I've notified Captain Argent that you'll be restricted to light duties for a week."

For a moment, it D'rek gets this bull-headed (for a Vulcan) look on his face, like he's going to object to the light duties, and Stiles's heart clenches in anxiety.

D'rek… pauses. And meets Stiles's eyes.

"Very well, Doctor," he says, eventually. "And… thank you, Ensign."

"What?" Stiles startles so badly, he jumps. Just, 'thank you' is the last thing he'd ever expected D'rek to say to _him_. Or to anyone, for that matter. Wasn't gratitude supposed to be 'irrelevant'? Maybe Stiles just popped D'rek's gratitude cherry. The thought is mind-breaking.

"You saved my life."

Stiles's pulse is hammering. Which is ridiculous, it's not like he's at phaser-point, but there's an edge to D'rek's new _focus_ on him that makes him feel cornered. "I just sat around," he says, more squeakily than he would've liked. "You - you were the one who hung in there." Stiles swallows. "Thank _you_."

"For what do you thank me?"

Stiles shrugs and looks away. "For not dying on me."

The silence stretches.

There's something taut in it, some quality of tightening tension that makes the space between D'rek and Stiles seem like it's_shrinking_, somehow, or collapsing in on itself, like a folding star. Several equations about dimensional shifts and the Elway Theorem flit through his mind, bright as birds.

Dr. Deaton is staring at them.

Nurse Yska is staring at them.

Stiles's throat is getting drier by the second, and he doesn't even know _why_.

"I, uh, I'd better get back to my console," he blurts, finally, when it becomes evident that no one's going to rescue him from this pit of incomprehensible, self-imposed awkwardness.

"Indeed," says D'rek, almost dryly. "Else, I would have to discipline you for dereliction of duty. Again."

"You never _did_ discipline me, sir."

"Did I not? How remiss of me."

Holy crap. D'rek is joking. _D'rek_ is joking. Or Stiles _hopes_ he's joking, anyway, because if he isn't, Stiles definitely is going to get court-martialed for non-practicing necrophilia. Like people used to get court-martialed for non-practicing homosexuality. Back in the day. (It isn't even surprising how tolerant society's become after encountering species with, like, five different sexes, or in some cases, no sexes at all. Pretty much the only thing that's taboo nowadays is corpse-fucking, unless you're a Dorathian, in which case, it's a compulsory part of every funeral service.)

Somehow, he manages to back out of the door without tripping over his own feet - and he can't explain _why_ he backs out, instead of just, like, walking out, other than the fact that it keeps D'rek within visual range for a little longer.

Not that he wants to keep looking at that sour Vulcan face. That _living_ Vulcan face. That living, breathing, threatening-disciplinary-action-but-not-really face.

D'rek is _alive_.

He's - he's alive. And now, he's _awake_.

When Stiles returns to his console, he finds himself literally, physiologically incapable of understanding what the hell he's seeing on his screen. He just sits there, heart still thrumming, like a string on a Vulcan lute that keeps vibrating after being plucked.

* * *

The commander returns to the bridge, every bit as stern and stiff-backed as ever, except for this weird tendency to crowd Stiles against his console in order to ask perfectly normal questions that don't require a gross violation of personal space. He also spends countless minutes just… watching Stiles. Creepily. From the command deck.

"Did you make him mad?" Ensign Patel whispers, now that she's decided that talking to Stiles is worth her time. "I thought you saved his life."

"So did I," Stiles mutters, ignoring the hair-raising feeling that comes from being skewered on the pointy ends of a pointy-eared bastard's pointy eyes. Great, now he's got goosebumps.

After another half-hour of it, though, he's had enough of the heebie-jeebies.

"Excuse me, sir." Stiles swivels his chair around, until he's looking up at D'rek, on the command deck. "Do you want something?"

D'rek just keeps _watching_ him. "Yes," he says, after a while.

And? "Is it something I can do?"

"Yes," says D'rek, and… leaves the bridge.

Okay.

_Okay._

"He's back to being freaky, isn't he?" Patel sounds nervous, as well she should; D'rek's got that ticking time-bomb thing going on.

"He was always freaky." Stiles frowns. "But he's being freaki_er_."

* * *

Stiles doesn't realize how freaky that _is_, until he gets back to his quarters and takes off his jacket and turns around, and… D'rek is on his couch.

D'rek is on his _couch_. What -

Stiles stumbles back against the door -

"Ensign Stilinski," D'rek greets him, politely, like they're just passing each other in the hallway.

"You're - " Stiles boggles. "Sir, did I do anything wrong?"

"Wrong?" D'rek tilts his head. "No."

"Uh." Stiles's mind races. Sure, the captain and the first officer have blanket access to crew quarters, in case of emergencies, but there isn't exactly a ship-wide red alert, right now. "All right. I. You're in my _room_, sir."

"Yes," D'rek says, and gets up. And _stalks_ toward Stiles, eyes a flatter blue than usual - a hot, arid, alien blue, unthinking as an animal's.

Stiles's heartbeat ratchets right _up_. This can't be real. It's like some crazy acid trip, but without the acid. Unless that drink Patel shared with him after his shift was _way_ more than it seemed to be.

He should say something. Possibly, he should _scream_ something, or just squeal like a stuck pig or a three-year-old girl, but all he can do is stand there, breathless and numb with a sort of yawning, inchoate panic. D'rek's gone Dark Side. Clearly. Maybe his recent near-death experience fried his circuits. Shish-kebabed his neurons. Fiddled his fiddlesticks. Did to him what the destruction of Romulus did to Nero.

"S-sir," Stiles begins, but then, D'rek is _there_, or rather, _here_. All over here. All over _Stiles_. Pressing him back against the door. "F-fuck - "

"Yes," says D'rek, and Stiles wonders if that's the only word psycho-D'rek can _say_. But then, D'rek continues: "That is what you can do for me."

It takes several seconds - or a stretching, agonizing _eternity_ - to figure out what D'rek means. The realization swoops through Stiles, slow and heavy and dark, like a bird of prey, casting its shadow over everything.

D'rek's hands come up to cup his face.

Stiles _jerks_ backward, hitting his head on the door.

D'rek touches him, anyway, gentle but implacable, fingertips pressing against Stiles's temples. D'rek's thumbs settle on Stiles's jaw, then slide down to his throat, above his collar.

Stiles _shivers_.

It's -

It's not -

Stiles feels hot, sick, terrified, _betrayed_. The pads of D'rek's thumbs are callused, hardened with years of handling consoles and phasers, and they're -

They're everything that's _wrong_ with this situation. D'rek's hands are _huge_, huge and lived-in and _experienced_. They're the hands of a commanding officer. An _older_ commanding officer. An alien with three times the strength of a human. A bully that apparently thinks he can intimidate a subordinate officer into having _sex_ - Stiles had thought D'rek was _better_ than that -

"You mistake me," D'rek murmurs, a moment before Stiles remembers the touch-telepathy, remembers that D'rek can hear every thought in Stiles's brain. "Were you, also, a telepath, you would understand."

"Well, I'm _not_ a telepath. Sorry about that - "

"Your apology is illogical, as is your fear. Once you meld with me, you will see that."

Meld. _Meld_. What -

D'rek's fingers press harder against his temples, not enough to hurt but enough to call attention to themselves, and D'rek's voice drops to a whisper - a sinuous, rasping whisper. "My mind to your mind. My thoughts to - "

"_No!_" Stiles _shoves_ D'rek away - or tries to - and D'rek doesn't budge, of course, but he does stop the meld. He looks mildly surprised.

"You are genuinely terrified," D'rek says, and his eyes are less flat, now, more normal. He looks strangely lost, for a moment, the kind of lost Stiles had expected him to be in sickbay. It makes something inside Stiles _twist_. "I - I do not intend to injure you."

"Then maybe you could _not force a mind-meld_ on me? That would be great. Sir."

But D'rek doesn't move away. There's still that falcon-sharp hunger to him, a spareness to his features, the spareness that belongs on a starving man. "You…" He removes his hands and rests them on the door-panel, on either side of Stiles, not touching him. "I will not force a meld on you. That is - that is not the Vulcan way."

"And demanding s-sex, sir?" Stiles hates himself for stuttering. "Is _that_ the Vulcan way?"

An expression flickers briefly across D'rek's face - a contortion that could be rage or horror - but it's gone before Stiles can make sense of it. "No," he says, and, shit, Stiles shouldn't have mentioned sex, shouldn't have spoken the _word_, because D'rek's eyes are going flat, again. And they're fixed on Stiles's mouth.

His -

Fuck, Stiles's dick is taking this particular moment to wake up and join the party, but Stiles is going to ignore it because his dick is a self-centered _prick_. So to speak.

"Sir, I - "

"Your refusal is illogical. You desire me."

"Uh - "

"I have seen your thoughts. You have long viewed me as sexually attractive. Now, your body is reflecting that attraction."

Stiles splutters. And tries not to squeeze his legs together to hide his hard-on, because a) it won't work and b) he'll only look like a three-year-old that really, really needs to go to the toilet. "I - idle thoughts don't mean - I've even had the odd sexy thought about _Captain Argent_, I'm _seventeen_, I'm practically an erection on two legs - "

"Your fantasies regarding me are not 'idle'. They are repetitive and detailed."

Stiles _flushes_.

"Comparatively, your fantasies regarding the captain are non-existent; you have merely noted his aesthetic appeal. You have not desired that he immobilize you with one hand and masturbate you with the other, nor have you desired that he mount you while you sleep - "

"Okay, just - stop. _Stop._" Stiles wants to _die_. Or just disappear into the nearest worm-hole and never, ever come back. "Please. I - you weren't supposed to _know_ any of that - "

"I am amenable. To all of that."

Stiles _stares_. His dick is on the brink of staging a one-man - one-penis - coup. A hostile takeover. Stiles can feel his hips starting to _twitch_. "No. _No._ Just because you… heard a couple stray thoughts, doesn't give you the right to - to - "

"Mount you," D'rek says, slowly, _precisely_. His pupils are _blown_. "I - will. Mount. You."

Holy _shit_. Sex-crazed Vulcans weren't part of Starfleet's Interspecies Relations seminars. And Stiles is finding it harder and harder - pun intended - to think with anything not located on his _crotch_.

But - there's a reason this is wrong. Bad-wrong. Several reasons, even. Not least of which - now that Stiles has stopped panicking long enough to process it - is the fact that D'rek's never _acted_ like this, and maybe he's been dosed with sex pollen or dirilium radiation or -

Or -

_Fuck._

"This is the Pon Farr, isn't it," says Stiles, weakly. It all adds up. D'rek's increasing agitation, even before the away-mission. The reason both Deaton and Danee were worried about how long Stiles had been touching D'rek. The reason D'rek keeps eyeballing him.

"Yes," growls D'rek, almost subvocal. He's leaning in toward Stiles. His hands are inching _closer_, as if drawn to Stiles magnetically.

Right. Starfleet has only learned about Pon Farr about the destruction of Vulcan, as the Vulcan High Council thought it more logical to release information that might make it easier for the few surviving Vulcans to find compatible mates, since the pool of potential candidates from their own species was now limited, and telepathic compatibility was no longer guaranteed among those that remained.

The idea that _Stiles_ is apparently compatible - with a _Vulcan_ - is bizarre enough, even leaving aside the wackier side-note that said Vulcan is his commanding officer.

"Don't," says Stiles, when D'rek's fingers almost brush him.

D'rek _freezes_. He's panting, like he's been running instead of standing still, and looks less like an intelligent life-form than something feral, with fangs and claws and fur, about to _bite_.

Stiles has a thing for biting, but that's neither here nor there -

_Especially_ not here -

At least, not right _now_ -

Focus. _Focus._

"You're a baby duckling," Stiles blurts, and D'rek… stops. And _looks_ at him. Fine, so that might've been a ridiculous enough non-sequitur to even break through a Pon Farr haze, but it's true. "A scary baby duckling - a _terrifying_ baby duckling, sure, but - you've just imprinted on me. It's all those days of touching. It's not - it's not _me_, it's - "

"It is you. Only you." There's a scraping, metallic sound, and Stiles realizes that it's D'rek's _nails_, scratching the door-panel. Jesus. How close _is_ he to going Frankenstein? "The beginnings of a bond cannot only be established by physical proximity. There must be true compatibility, else my mind would not reach for yours, unsatisfied, at least once every zero-point-four hours."

"Th-that often?" Stiles is pretty sure nobody has ever thought of Stiles _that_ frequently. Hell, even _Stiles_ doesn't think of Stiles that frequently.

"I have been without a mate for six Terran years. In that time, I have been actively seeking another mate. I have not found one. Until now."

Six - six _years_. Six years of searching, and _Stiles_ is all D'rek can come up with?

"Consent to me." D'rek's starting to look _wild_. "Consent. To a meld. You will see - "

"I don't… I don't mean to. Make you _suffer_, sir, but - "

D'rek's brows lower. His voice goes from the consistency of gravel to the consistency of igneous _rock_. "I will have you as my mate."

What does he mean, 'will'? "Aren't you, like, supposed to _ask_?"

D'rek frowns. Thoughtfully. Then says: "I would have you as my mate."

Stiles boggles. "That isn't, actually, a question. You basically just replaced 'will' with 'would', how is that even - "

"The first was a statement of fact. The second is a request."

"Um. Maybe in the _middle ages_, sir."

"Speak to Lieutenant Danee," says D'rek, and that - that's not a request. It's a _command_. "Tomorrow. Discuss with him, in his capacity as ship's counselor, whether or not you wish to consent to me. If you do not, then you should - stay away. From me. Leave the bridge. Take up your previous post, and replace Ensign Markov at his console, until such time as my Pon Farr is over."

"Shouldn't - shouldn't I be talking it over with _you_?"

"No extended interaction with me will stay limited to the non-telepathic - or the non-sexual."

Stiles gulps. "Um." It's true that D'rek still looks like he's about a split second away from tearing the uniform off of Stiles and nailing him, right here, against the door. Which isn't, sadly, doing anything to make Stiles's hard-on go back _down_. "All… all right. I'll - I'll talk to Danee."

"Lieutenant Danee."

"Lieutenant Danee," Stiles corrects.

"Do you know him personally."

"What?"

"You refer to him by his name alone. Do you - "

"No!" Stiles yelps, because D'rek's eyes are going from psycho-horny to psycho-_murderous_. "No, I - it's just that he's closer to my age, and - I didn't think about what I was saying - "

"You are friends."

"Not even that," Stiles assures him, then wonders how insane it is that he's assuring his Pon Farr-ed commander that he's sexually and romantically available. Shit. "Sir, this is - maybe you should. Go, now?"

D'rek _breathes_. And doesn't even shift. If D'rek were a human, Stiles would say that D'rek just had a seriously bad case of indigestion, but on a Vulcan, that expression probably translates to 'tormented'. Very, very tormented. Eighteen-century-novel tormented. Ghost-haunting-a-ghost-ship tormented.

"I'm sorry," he says, before he can stop himself - he has _nothing_ to apologize for - and that, apparently, is something D'rek agrees with.

"No," D'rek shakes his head, and gradually pulls away - with excruciating slowness, as if he's literally tearing himself away, and his skin keeps catching on hooks. Stiles-shaped hooks. "Your - apology is illogical."

"Look, either my fear is illogical, or my apology is illogical. Can't be _both_."

"Humans," says D'rek, "are not logical."

"Good," Stiles says, letting his own sweat-slick palms slide down the door. He won't slump in relief, though. Not yet. Not until D'rek is gone. "It's good that you, um. Know that."

"I know my crew."

"Yeah." Stiles _is_ D'rek's crew. And fraternization isn't legally banned in Starfleet, unless it's coercive or corrupts the command structure, but Stiles can't see how just agreeing to anything his First Officer says, without even knowing exactly what the hell he's agreeing to, _wouldn't_ be coercive. Or corruptive of the command structure.

"You will inform me when you have spoken to Lieutenant Danee."

"I'll - I'll let you know. What decision I. Um. Reach. How long do you have? Before the… the final stage of the Pon Farr?"

"You must inform me immediately - "

"_How long_. Sir."

"Three weeks," says D'rek, "and four days."

Crap. Crap, crap, _crap_. "So you don't really have the time. To find someone else. And - won't you _die_ if you don't mate?"

"I will not coerce you."

"That's not what I'm - what were you planning on _doing_? Before I came along?"

"I was planning to secure myself. In my quarters. With fortified force-fields. And give only Captain Argent the access codes."

No. No _way_. "You… were planning to die in there."

"Not all Vulcans perish without a mate."

"But most do."

D'rek raises an eyebrow. He looks more normal, now that he isn't all up in Stiles's face, like being near Stiles drives him even further up the wall than he already is. "That is irrelevant to this discussion."

"Irr - no, it's not. It's fucking _not_ - "

"I will not coerce you. You will not consent to save my life."

"Don't tell me what I - I mean, sure, you're my commander, but don't - "

"You will consent to me because you desire me."

Stiles… doesn't even know what to say to that. No, wait, he _does_. "Just when I think you're being altruistic - "

"Altruism is illogical."

"…right. Just when I think you're trying not to pressure me into saying yes, you - pressure me into saying yes. It doesn't matter whether you're guilt-tripping me with your impending _death_ or just being some sort of invasive, arrogant jackass that uses a guy's private fantasies against him, it still makes you a total bastard - "

"Your insubordination - "

"_Fuck_ my insubordination. Sir."

D'rek is silent. Watching Stiles.

Oops. Maybe Stiles shouldn't have said 'fuck' out loud. Not when D'rek's still only a foot away, and in the grip of a genetically predetermined mating cycle that predates - by little more than three goddamn _weeks_ - a frenzy of violent, absolutely uncontrollable fucking. "I'll… speak to Danee. _Lieutenant_ Danee. I should have a reply for you when I'm done."

"What time will that be."

Vulcans seem to lose the ability to use question-marks when in the midst of involuntary sexual arousal. Interesting tidbit. _That_definitely wasn't in the files released by the Vulcan High Commission. "Um. By 1700 hours, I think? The lieutenant's made a free spot for me, right about then."

D'rek takes another step away.

Stiles inches sideways along the door.

It immediately swishes open.

D'rek only looks at Stiles once, before leaving, but that single glance _burns_, like a shot of tequila, and Stiles _gasps_. There's - everything in that glance. Everything.

"Sleep well, Ensign," says D'rek, somehow managing to pull on a mask of maybe-I'm-okay-and-not-planning-to-kill-everyone, which is, Stiles realizes, the exact same mask he's been wearing for _weeks_.

Stiles still hasn't replied to D'rek - because he _can't_, because he's too busy trying not to cream and/or piss his own pants - when the door slides shut.

This time, Stiles _does_ slump.

D'rek's gone. The most insistent - and downright creepy - marriage proposal ever made has just come to an end.

Stiles's problems, though, are just beginning.


End file.
